A Conclusion of Sorts
by HorseLoverTW
Summary: Jon isn't really dead and Dany definitely hasn't begun.
1. Winter's Wail

"**Winter's Wail"**

Disclaimer: '_A Song of Ice and Fire_' is owned by George RR Martin.

A/N: This may or may not be a one shot.

"_For the Watch." [Bowen Marsh] punched Jon in the belly. When he pulled his hand away, the dagger stayed where he had buried it. Jon fell to his knees. He found the dagger's hilt and wrenched it free. In the cold night air the wound was smoking. "Ghost," he whispered. Pain washed over him. 'Stick them with the pointy end.' When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold…" _

_ ~A Dance with Dragons_

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><p>The cold burst like grapefruit in Jon's veins, its sharp flavour splashing through his blood and chilling his body until he was no longer aware he had one. Light, like a thousand diamonds woven together on a patchwork field of crystal, was all he could see until the shimmering tapestry cracked and splintered, a horrendous wail of thunder emanating from its dark, burgeoning fissure. The split that formed shook and trembled, devouring its glacial diamond cliffs and swallowing Jon's world whole.<p>

A frozen wasteland of darkness reigned supreme in his sight, the dying embers of a winter wind's last howl the only sound to comfort him. He felt a cold sigh against his soul, and then remembered the taste of salty tears on his tongue as he thought of all the goodbyes he had tasted and all the more he had missed.

The regrets burned inside him sweeter than a summer's kiss and warmer than the Dornish sun. They swirled around the frigid obsidian air like tendrils of flame whispering to one another before he was consumed by their eager prose. Their voices gathered and bubbled within him until they sang a song of hope and promise, light and love.

He raised a hand out to touch the flames and they cooled, his flesh pale and white like the snow he was named for. Steam and smoke rose from his skin as the flames melted around him. The darkness that had ripped the world in two was fleeing now as the fire flickered and showered the night with stars.

Jon watched them spark, one by one, as he sat up in this new blazing world, a searing heat radiating up from the core of his being. His blood was hot and humming as it sung through him, the melody of life.

He stood in the fire, the long summer of doubt at his back, the dream of spring stretched forever before him, elusive and seductive. To either side lay only the wails of winter, the song inside him trembling at their screech.

Jon embraced the cold.


	2. Summer's Kiss

"**Summer's Kiss"**

Disclaimer: '_A Song of Ice and Fire_' is owned by George RR Martin.

A/N: So now it's a two shot. Any feedback would be appreciated but mostly I'd just like for the Winds of Winter to hurry up.

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><p>Mercy was a gift Daenerys did not bequeath unto the late Khal Jhaqo or his monstrous Bloodrider, Mago. By the time the Bloodrider had spotted her, eyes wide and mouth open like a lackwit, Dany had leapt upon Drogon's scaly withers, spurred the dragon to a gusty vantage and commanded, her voice cracked but strong, "<em>DRACARYS<em>!"

Drogon screeched, as though in jubilation at hearing the word once more, and threw his massive reptilian head back before swivelling around as quick as a snake and releasing a torrent of bright red flames. Mago's stallion squealed at the impending onslaught and gave a frantic buck, dislodging his rider and making a gallant leap sideways to avoid the heat. Mago, still stupefied, fell like a sack of limp grain to the ground, the disgrace of his fall compounded by the pitiful high-pitched wail he gave as he saw his death rain down upon him. The wail was promptly cut short and when Drogon's flames receded, all that was left of the Bloodrider were his bones and some gooey sinew, blackened and smoking.

The fifty or so riders that had been a part of Jhaqo's advance team, including Jhaqo himself, had then fled before Dany, their stallion's strides eating the grass at a frenetic pace as both man and beast seemed to sense their impending doom.

A certain chill had invaded Dany's heart as she took up the challenge of rending every last Dothraki between her and Jhaqo to charred bits. It was like a game. How precisely could she direct Drogon's attacks? If she willed her dragon down to pluck a rider, would he try to fetch the horse as well? How quickly could Drogon snap one man's back and toss him aside before Dany was able to refocus his sights on the next target?

She found that with clarity of purpose, her dragon bent to her will far easier than he ever seemed to bend to her voice or her touch. She bade Drogon soar over Jhaqo's dapple stallion and set down in front of the warhorse. The stallion was probably the bravest of the herd, chosen by Jhaqo of the thousands of mounts in the Dothraki Sea for his courage, beauty, and strength. He displayed it now as he reared and screamed in the face of Drogon's smoking gullet.

Such a dramatic end would be far too grand for Jhaqo, and far too quick to properly avenge Eroeh's death, so Dany nudged Drogon, her will, her blood, speaking through her actions into his, until the dragon reared back as well and fanned his silken-leathery wings at the Khal and his steed.

Gusts of wind assaulted the pair until the horse was thrown over backward, landing with a sickening crunch on top of his master. When the stallion rolled away, Jhaqo's limbs were twitching but his pelvis and other bones were so obviously shattered that he could do no more than groan in agony.

Dany jumped lithely from Drogon's withers and enticed the stallion toward her with a soothing voice and an outstretched hand. Sensing the damage he had inflicted on his master, the horse contritely lowered his head and allowed Dany to catch up his reins. Her heart unfroze slightly at the defeated look in the noble creature's eye.

She patted the dappled gray's lathered shoulder comfortingly, letting him know he had disappointed no one, before grasping the hilt of Jhoqo's arakh and sliding the blade free from the Khal's intricate saddle.

The blade was short and curved at the end like a scythe, as all Dothraki blades were, but the leather grip was worn and the odd balance of the steel in her hands was oddly comforting as Dany slowly advanced on the fallen Khal. The two-dozen or so warriors that had survived their mad gallop were now held helplessly at bay by the threat of Drogon's razor teeth and intent watching eyes behind her.

In the Dothraki tongue, Dany spoke assuredly and as clear as her parched and cracked voice could manage, "I, Daenerys Targaryen, Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, will spare any who pledge their life and blood to my cause. Any," and here she paused, cutting the bells from Jhoqo's whimpering head, one by one, "but this pitiful creature before you who so quickly forgot his oath and forsook his true Khal and Khaleesi. A Bloodrider dies when the Khal dies, or lives long enough to shepherd his family to safety and avenge the blood of his blood's death." She ripped out the last bell using her bare hands and then viciously plunged the arakh into Jhoqo's chest, feeling the flesh and organs inside give way as though she were slicing through bread. It was the most vicious, hated act of Dany's life, but as much as a part of her sobbed to feel a man's life ebb away at her own hands, another part of her coldly rejoiced and forced herself to not look away.

Shaking only slightly, as much from fatigue as from nerves, Dany rose, the arakh at her side glistening red and dripping blood onto the browning grass all around her. She looked into the faces of the copper-skinned Dothraki warriors that encircled her, taking in the apprehension, shock, distrust, and anger that registered in their dark almond-shaped eyes.

She gathered herself once more, knowing that this could end in many an unfavorable fashion, from Drogon failing to save her in time, to Drogon simply abandoning her, to both of them perishing. She slowly raised the arakh high and beginning in a near whisper, began once more, "I am Daenerys Targaryen. I am the Slayer of Lies and thus having ended the one before you, will know now who will serve their true Khaleesi unto the ends of the world?"

Dany held her breath for several moments as no one spoke or moved. Then finally, a large warrior, with enough bells in his braided hair that he clinked as he strode forward, proclaimed in a resounding baritone, "Khaleesi," before dropping to kneel before her.

Unsure of exactly how it was done but suddenly recalling the tales of knighthood that her old Bear had often rendered, Dany deftly touched the side of the arakh to the warrior's left shoulder and then the right, as gently as a maiden's kiss. "The first to come forward, I ask your oath, that you will live and die as blood of my blood, riding at my side to keep me safe from harm."

The warrior's head rose. "Blood of my blood," he murmured, gazing steadily up at her. He wasn't as youthfully elegant as Jhogo, nor was he as powerfully commanding as Drogo had been, but in his face she saw honesty and strength.

It was a good start.

Dany drew the blade away and, in its place, offered her hand. "Arise then, and speak your name."

He took her much smaller hand in his own, Dany marveling for a brief moment at the contrast between her sunburnt pale fingers and his own rough, olive-toned ones. "Quortho," he responded at last, snapping her out of her memories of Drogo and what was lost.

Dany had only the future she made to look forward to now. The future was literally in her hands.


End file.
